Canvas
by Shadowed Violin
Summary: There had been two stages in his life: "Just Harry", criminal nephew to the Dursleys, and "Harry Potter", the Boy-Who-Lived; in each, a colour respectfully marked his image: that is, emerald green and a champion's gold. He'd never had much choice in the matter, but now? He'd show them all. He'd be scarlet red.


**Canvas**

He knew. Sometimes it felt as if he always had. He knew that when people thought of Just Harry, criminal nephew to the Dursleys, they thought of green. Deep, emerald green inherited from his _slut _of a mother. Green was the colour, even in the black of his cupboard.

Then everything changed. Just Harry was a wizard, and for a small, infinitesimal moment he'd hoped that he could stay Just Harry, the shy, quiet one, but without all the bad. The agony. Slytherin had sounded perfect … the home that would understand him, would cherish him and all his pain, his ambitions of living shadows. It helped that when he thought of himself, Just Harry saw green as well, much like Slytherin's image.

But it wasn't to be. Not ever, as he had never been normal, and why should this time be any different? So you see, Just Harry wasn't green … he was gold.

He was Harry Potter, the Gryffindor Golden Boy.

And yes, there was some green, some Just Harry Potter, but _oh, _how it was drenched in gold, in predictions, prophecies, superstitions, accusations and expectations.

He couldn't hide, couldn't blend into the shadows as he'd wanted to, as he always had, from the time he was first placed within his cupboard, where the warmth of the black had allowed him reprieve, to pretend that he wasn't green, Just Black, part of something _else –_

worthy.

But _please, _he remembered begging, not this worth, not this _gold _thrust upon him, _he didn't want it, _yet no-one had cared. And then he'd realised –

It didn't matter what he wanted. He was but the canvas, the world his artist, and it would render him any form it wished, depict him in any light that it felt apt. He was the Boy-Who-Lived, the Chosen One, the Champion, the Heir of Slytherin (and _god,_ he'd once, in a moment of weakness, prayed he was; prayed for green …), the Saviour … so many titles, all proclaiming him one thing, with but another contradicting it.

And for a moment, he'd given in. Given in to the pressure, and allowed himself to be moulded, to forget that comforting cupboard, that home that had always understood him as he now knew no-one else could – or would. He was everything to the world – arrogant, cruel, vindictive, attention-seeking; he was good, kind, just, loyal – and yet everything _but who he truly was – _

They'd forgotten he was Just Harry beneath all the canvas, all the colours, and for a while, he'd forgotten too, he'd been on autopilot, had let others steer him in any direction.

Had let _Dumbledore –_

But it didn't matter. Not in the least (not anymore, when he understood _why, _had stopped blaming the universe as the world blamed him).

It didn't matter, because he had a plan, and he was _so proud, _as childish as it seemed, because he'd thought of it, hadn't let anyone else suggest it to him, present it to his ear.

He had a plan to make sure that when people thought of Just Harry Potter (finally saw him as he was, not _Just Harry, _or _Harry Potter_, but the both combined), they thought of not green nor gold, but something else entirely –

And when they left him alone that summer, so sure that their Golden Boy would be fine after Cedric's death, he made his move. He was Harry Potter, surrounded by Order members, and he was Just Harry, the mutt to his relatives, and it'd been so confusing, trying to be both at once, but he didn't mind; he'd had lots of practice, and soon he'd be neither –

When the clock struck midnight, proclaiming the day he was born (_such poetry he would create, would birth as the world had birthed his image_), he'd picked up his paintbrush, and steadied it before his canvas, and with one quick stroke – the first and the last – he'd created a masterpiece with one simple thought.

And now, when people thought of him – thought of Just Harry or Harry Potter, or the median in-between – they thought of red.

Not of green nor gold, but scarlet, sweeping red, shockingly bright against the pallor of the canvas … the canvas that the world had made him to be.

What poetry indeed … he was alone, as he'd always been, on his birthday; but now, much like him, it had a dual image …

Happy Deathday, the Boy-Who-Wore-Red.


End file.
